


Canis lupus familiaris

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: The desert is a waste of time [15]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alfie adopts a son, Cyril has his own tag ahhh, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, M/M, and doesn't entirely trust this Tommy fella, that makes me so happy, who is perfect in every way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-28 02:43:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20418593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: Unfortunately, Polly spots the telegram on Tommy's desk on her way out and cocks her head sideways for a closer look. It reads as follows: ACQUIRED CANINE ASSOCIATE STOP ANSWERS TO CYRIL STOPIn which some people adopt a dog.(Part of a bigger overall AU. You know the drill.)





	Canis lupus familiaris

It all starts with the telegram.

Unfortunately, Polly spots it on Tommy's desk on her way out and cocks her head sideways for a closer look. The telegram, which has been lying around on Tommy’s desktop since it arrived two hours ago, reads as follows:

ACQUIRED CANINE ASSOCIATE STOP ANSWERS TO CYRIL STOP

“The fuck does that mean?” Polly says and Tommy shrugs like he couldn’t care less, does his best to silently convey that this is a very complicated matter – not all that serious, but still, he’s not going to go into detail right now, it’s far from important enough to explain everything.

“Long fucking story,” he says, which would be enough to deter anybody else, but this is Polly, and nothing works on Polly, not really, not if she doesn’t want it to work.

“That from Solomons?” she says, guessing correctly. It would be a lot more impressive if the phrase _canine_ _associate _wasn’t right there in black and white, staring them in the face, Tommy thinks. Anybody could have guessed that.

“It is,” he says, because well, why should he deny it. He wonders what she thinks about the message; if she assumes it’s code for something else, if she thinks it’s out of necessity or if, as usual, Alfie is being weird about something just because he can? Neither one of those assumptions would be true, is the thing, because the simple truth of the matter is this: Alfie got a dog.

Tommy has been aware that it was going to happen for quite some time now, because Alfie’s driver had a death in the family, and said family member – father? uncle? fucking _something,_ Tommy can’t even remember now – apparently did have a dog, and that dog needed looking after, which for some reason means that Alfie has it, now.

Polly takes a long drag of her cigarette, raises both eyebrows at him.

“What is he sending you fucking telegrams for, anyway?,” she says “Doesn’t he know how to use a telephone?”

“It’s anybody’s guess,” Tommy says, because well… it is. He’s just now realizing how fucking strange it is that this is the sort of information he has, now, even without any conscious effort on his part, just because he and Alfie are… whatever they fucking are. Definitely should _feel_ a lot stranger than it actually does, he thinks, which makes the whole thing strange in an entirely _different_ way. Polly is still watching him intently, like she’s waiting for him to go on.

“Yeah,” Tommy says mildly, after a few seconds of silence. “Anything else?”

Polly narrows her eyes at him.

“No,” she murmurs finally, putting her cigarette between her teeth. “Carry on.”

Tommy almost makes a sarcastic remark, thanking her for graciously granting him permission to do some bloody work, inside his own bloody office, for his own bloody company. Almost. Nods his head instead, once, very seriously, and watches her leave. Once she’s gone, he crumples up the telegram and throws it into the bin.

Just in case.

* * *

In the evening, Alfie honest-to-God tries to introduce him to the dog over the telephone.

The first part of the whole endeavor doesn’t come as a surprise, honestly, which should worry Tommy a lot more than it actually does. The telephone part, however, is a bit much, even by Alfie’s standards.

“Fine,” Tommy concedes, hastily eyeing his watch before putting it back into his pocket. He’s supposed to meet up with Arthur in ten minutes. “Get on with it.”

“Right,” Alfie says, sounding pleased. “You just hang on a second, yeah?”

“What,” Tommy says, because in all seriousness, it’s a bloody dog. How complicated does this have to be? “Why?”

“Well, have to go get him, don’t I,” Alfie says, like that makes perfect sense – like _Tommy_ is the unreasonable one, here.

“He’s not even in-” Tommy says, exasperated, and stops himself, because there really isn’t any point.

“’Course not,” Alfie says, like this is the most logical thing in the world. “It’s a _dog,_ mate, yeah? Can’t expect him to sit around and wait for his turn! He’d get bored, right, wouldn’t he.”

“Perish the fucking thought,” Tommy murmurs, but he’s well aware that he’s talking to himself at this point, because there is some audible rattling on the other side, and then a clatter, and then silence – Alfie got up to fetch the dog, in all likelihood. He’s back in under fifteen seconds, which is sooner than Tommy expected.

“Right,” he says again, and then his voice dies away a bit, even though he’s still saying something. It sounds like he is talking to another person instead of a dog, Tommy thinks, cadence, tone, everything, which also isn’t… that surprising, really. Of course Alfie would give a dog more credit than most people.

“Cyril,” he says finally, and it’s still a bit indistinct, because he’s probably not talking directly into the mouthpiece, but is close enough for his voice to be picked up, regardless. He also sounds way too fucking serious, like this is something that actually matters. “This is Thomas Shelby, right – I know you can’t see him yet and s’probably for the best, innit, ‘cause I’m pretty fuckin’ sure he’s making a face right now-”

And the thing is, Tommy isn’t, not really – and rolling his eyes towards the ceiling doesn’t fucking count – but he still feels caught out.

“-but he’s supposed to be able to charm dogs and all that, yeah, isn’t he, so I do, right, I _do_ expect you not to fall for any of that-”

“How the fuck would you even know-” Tommy interrupts, because he has to leave at some point and this is getting ridiculous. 

“S’what people say, innit,” Alfie says, unperturbed, speaking directly into the mouthpiece again.

“Which people?”

“Any case,” Alfie says, ignoring the question, and continues on unapologetically. “This is Cyril. Be polite, yeah, he’s a very good dog.”

There is some rustling, and then there’s heavy breathing directly next to Tommy’s ear; very loud and kind of wet. Tommy pulls the earpiece away from his head instinctively and stares at it in disbelief, even though he knew it was coming. He honestly can’t tell if Alfie is making fun of him or not; if he’s doing this for his own amusement or if it’s actually important to him – which is still something that’s hard to determine, sometimes, even though Tommy would like to think that he knows him pretty well at this point. Better than most people, at the very least. The fact that he can’t tell should _most definitely_ bother him more than it actually does.

How the fuck he is supposed to be polite to a dog over the telephone is anybody’s guess, though, so he tries not to listen too closely to the noises coming from the earpiece and doesn’t say anything until he can hear Alfie’s voice again.

“You said hello?” he says, when he’s finally back on the line again. “Yeah? All done?”

“Sure,” Tommy deadpans. They both know he’s lying, Tommy would bet actual money on that, but Alfie doesn’t seem bothered. Seems pleased with the result, even, because he’s murmuring something to the dog again, and suddenly Tommy realizes something.

Alfie is… actually excited about this. Tommy’s not sure how he knows that, all of a sudden, how that became clear from one second to the next, what exactly made him realize – just that it’s absolutely true.

* * *

When Tommy sees it for the first time, the dog sits and stares at him for a solid minute while Tommy waits in Alfie’s office. It seems comfortable enough, not hostile in the slightest, but still, it’s not moving at all; watching intently as Tommy takes out his cigarettes and his lighter, tilts its head to the side when Tommy lights up.

It’s big and brown – Bullmastiff, if Tommy had to guess, thinking that John might know, because out of all of them, John is the one that always had a soft spot for dogs. Could easily be a proper guard dog, with that size and those teeth.

He turns his chair around until they’re facing each other, eyeing each other warily. Tommy holds out his hand, thinking the dog might come to him, but it just blinks at him, once, almost comically slow and then huffs and still doesn’t move.

“What’s this, then,” Alfie’s says behind his back. “Already making friends, are you.”

The dog immediately perks up at the sound of his voice, gets up and hurries over. Alfie scratches its head, strokes over its ears with his palms.

“Hello, yes, hello.” As usual, his shirt is only buttoned halfway, suspenders pulled off his shoulders and hanging from his waist. He’s using his cane today, clamping it tightly against his thigh with one elbow so he has both hands free to pet the dog. “This is Tommy Shelby, yeah,” and he’s talking directly to the dog without looking at Tommy at all. Tommy wouldn’t be surprised if Alfie started pointing at him. “Told you ‘bout him, didn’t I. He’s the one from the telephone, yeah? You remember that? Hm? You remember the telephone?”

The dog huffs again, wagging its tail.

_“I_ remember the telephone,” Tommy says, trying very hard not to feel insulted, because… all right. It’s not like they fucking kiss hello or something; on the contrary, they make it a point not to touch at all in public, most of the time. But it’s another thing entirely to get no acknowledgement at all.

Alfie looks up at that, doesn’t quite smirk at him, but it’s close, Tommy can _tell. _

“Do you, now,” he says and he’s so clearly amused that Tommy wants to roll his eyes immediately. “That’s fuckin’ impressive, mate, I gotta say… ‘cause that’s clearly a very hard thing to do, innit.”

He couldn’t sound more sarcastic if he fucking tried.

“Right,” Tommy says and holds out his hand, makes it an official greeting, because honestly, he doesn’t fucking need this. “Afternoon, Alfie.”

Unlike the dog, Alfie actually takes the two remaining steps to cross the room and shakes his hand. Two of his fingernails are black and blue, knuckles scraped red – because last week Ollie managed to slam the car door shut on Alfie’s hand. It’s another one of those things Tommy just… miraculously knows about, right down to the fact that Alfie kept referring to the incident as a “cold-blooded murder attempt” for days afterwards.

“Yeah, yeah, mate, afternoon already,” he mutters, like he’s talking to himself. As always, his hand is very warm. It’s possible they hold on for a second longer than would be strictly necessary, but so what. There’s nobody in here but the dog.

“Settle down, will you” Alfie says conversationally and Tommy almost points out that he is already doing that, before he realizes that Alfie is talking to the dog again – who promptly returns to his corner, and lays down on floor with a content noise. It’s probably coincidence, but it’s perfectly in synch with Alfie sitting down in his chair, sinking into it like he has never heard the word backbone before. He’s still holding his cane, loosely gripping it around the midpoint.

“Strange name for a dog,” Tommy says. “Why did they name him that, do you know?”

“Oh, no, I changed the name,” Alfie says. “Yeah… decided he’s more of a Cyril than a Bo, hm? Wouldn’t you agree?”

Tommy looks at the dog. He can’t exactly tell its age, but it’s fully grown to say the least; judging by its behavior it has outgrown the puppy years as well.

“Not supposed to do that,” he says, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Dogs, they don’t listen to a name other than the one they’re used to.”

“Sure they do, mate,” Alfie says, bemused, furrowing his brow.

“They really don’t.”

Alfie straightens up in his chair a bit, looks him in the eyes and very seriously says, “Cyril.”

Doesn’t even check for a reaction, but Tommy does – when he turns to look, the dog is clearly focused on Alfie, with its head up and its tail thumping onto the floorboards excitedly.

“Just have to tell ‘em,” Alfie says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, that a dog should be informed of any impending name changes. He lets go of his cane, leaning it against the side of his chair and plants both of his elbows on the desk, spreading his hands wide for emphasis. “Don’t you. So they know. If they don’t _know,_ yeah, they can’t respond to anything, can they. ‘Cause the don’t know.”

He’s dead serious about this, Tommy realizes. Jesus Christ. Until now, he was at least half-convinced that Alfie was taking the piss – excited about the dog, yes, but maybe also just having fun with it, a little bit a least.

“Right,” Tommy says, nodding along. “What if they don’t like the name?”

Alfie tilts his head to the side, in a gesture that strangely resembles the way Cyril did it earlier. Or maybe Tommy is just losing his mind a bit. Maybe Alfie’s particular brand of weirdness is catching, who fucking knows. “I am perfectly aware, Thomas, yeah” he says, slow and thoughtful. “That you might be under the impression, right, that I’m making all of this up. Hmm? Which is fine, honestly, s’perfectly all right, I’ll forgive you. You just don’t know any better.”

“Is that so,” Tommy says dryly, raising an eyebrow.

“It is, yeah,” Alfie says. He’s rubbing his thumb against his palm now, seemingly lost in thought for a moment, before he says, “You eaten yet?”

“Yes,” Tommy says, blank-faced, which is a complete and utter lie. He hast that urge, sometimes… couldn’t even explain why. Just because he can, maybe, just to see if Alfie will notice or not.

Alfie promptly narrows his eyes at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmmmm,” Alfie says, a drawn out, disapproving sound. He clearly thinks Tommy is lying, but doesn’t call him out on it.

“Well, I fuckin’ haven’t, mate,” is what he says instead. “You wanna join me?”

Tommy shrugs. “Sure,” he says, like he’s the one doing Alfie a favor. “Why not.”

“Right,” Alfie says, decisive, one of his hands coming down heavily on top of the desk. “Back in two minutes.”

He’s limping a bit today, Tommy notices, paying close attention as he leaves the office while pretending not to. They haven’t even touched anything business-related yet, but they can do that later. Can discuss it at the restaurant, even. When he looks back over at the corner, it’s almost startling to find Cyril staring at him; unmoving, but entirely focused.

“Fuck,” Tommy murmurs and stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Like the world really needed two of you, eh?”

Now that he thinks about it, he’s really fucking hungry. Hasn’t really eaten anything today, which is probably why. Cyril makes a quiet woofing sound.

“That wasn’t a compliment,” Tommy tells him.

Cyril, being a dog, seems entirely unimpressed.

**Author's Note:**

> Is anybody going to believe me if I say that technically, I started writing this before the first episode of s5 aired? No? Okay.  
I'm aware that this is pretty short, but I don't have the time to write anything longer right now, I just felt like... I needed this to calm down a bit lmao. Something nice and non-threatening, where everything is fine and nobody has a mental breakdown.
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
